


For the Love of The Game (It Made Me Love You)

by Quirky_chemist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, False Identity, Inspired by A Knight's Tale, Jousting, Knight Derek Hale, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Prince Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6174043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quirky_chemist/pseuds/Quirky_chemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles tugs on the arm braces of his armor, tightening the leather straps so that they were snug and in place. Scott was watching him with worried eyes as he finishes suiting up for the tournament. Every few minutes he would mumble under his breath about how Stiles’ father would kill him if he found out what they were doing. </p><p>It was easy enough to fake the papers needed for an unknown knight from a rarely heard of territory, especially when you had the resources that Stiles did. He would ride as his true identity, but none would ever ride against him. Knowing that he was royalty, every knight would quickly and surely send one of their men to cover their shield with a white flag in withdrawal. It was an annoying truth that Stiles could not deny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Biannual Jousting Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> Okay... ::deep breath:: Here goes nothing.
> 
> Hi there! This is my first work I've ever had the guts to actually put out there for others to read (besides sending it to my best friend, of course). I'm really only doing this because she said that I should... and also because I hope it motivates me to keep it up and not let it sit unfinished on my computer desktop forever (I have quite a few of them, sadly).
> 
> This idea came to me when I made my best friend watch A Knight's Tale because she had never seen it. We were having a Heath Ledger movie marathon (10 Things I Hate About You, The Dark Knight, etc.) so A Knight's Tale was something that had to be watched as well, it just had to be.
> 
> I don't promise a great story, but I hope you all can find some enjoyment from this somehow.

Stiles tugs on the arm braces of his armor, tightening the leather straps so that they were snug and in place. Scott was watching him with worried eyes as he finishes suiting up for the tournament. Every few minutes he would mumble under his breath about how Stiles’ father would kill him if he found out what they were doing. Stiles had told his dad that he was exploring the countryside to become more in tune with his future kingdom while he was actually attending the biannual jousting tournament. 

It was easy enough to fake the papers needed for an unknown knight from a rarely heard of territory, especially when you had the resources that Stiles did. He would ride as his true identity, but none would ever ride against him. Knowing that he was royalty, every knight would quickly and surely send one of their men to cover their shield with a white flag in withdrawal. It was an annoying truth that Stiles could not deny. Thus, he rode under the name Sir Otebon. It wasn’t his first choice, but anything he wanted would have been too flashy and easily discernable.

Stiles dons his gauntlets and nods firmly to his best friend. “That should do it, Scotty. When are we up?” Scott worries at his lip as he leans out the opening in the tent to converse with one of the men standing guard inconspicuously. When he steps back from the entrance, he looks to his prince and crosses his arms, anxiety radiating from him.

“Two more rounds and it’ll be your turn.” He pauses, mouth open as if he wanted to say more before he decides to barrel on. “Are you sure this is the smartest thing to do? I know for a fact that if you get hurt and your father has to hear about this, you’re in big trouble and I’m as good as dead.”

Stiles laughs and claps the crooked-jawed young man on the shoulder. “Scotty, my dad loves you. He would definitely know that this monstrous idea was mine and that I just dragged you along for moral support, using the fact that you’re my best and only friend as blackmail.”

Scott sighs and brushes off Stiles’ hand. “Sure, tell that to my mother when and if she hears about my helping you not only lie to your father but to all the officials of the tournament. We can potentially be charged with fraud or some other terrible crime…”

“Scotty, calm yourself. We wouldn’t be charged with anything if I just told them who I really was if we did get questioned. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to go against their king’s son.”

Scott shrugs, not looking at all consoled by his friend’s words, while the tent flap opens a bit, a valet leaning in slightly. “Sir, you’ll want to be heading to the ring.”

Stiles grabs his helmet with a smile and nods to the man. “Thank you, I’ll be right out.” The valet bobs his head and releases the flap and Stiles looks back to Scott. “Seriously, stop worrying so much. My plans are basically foolproof.”

Scott can’t stop the smirk and roll of his eyes. “Oh really? Like when you decided it was perfectly sane to repeatedly hassle Harris when he already hates you and has a say in your studies back home? Like with that time you chose to research the history of the male circumcision with your own opinions on the future of it and how it can affect men medically. Finstock didn’t know how to handle that and Harris was not at all happy about having to take over. Or that other time when you tried to catch the eye of Princess Lydia at your father’s ball? What made you think telling her your ten-year plan to woo her would make her realize that you two were meant to be?”

Stiles shakes his head vehemently and shoves Scott away. “Enough, enough. You really know how to put a damper on things, don’t you Scotty?”

His friend shrugs. “I have to be the voice of reason every once in a while.”

Stiles chuckles softly and puts his helmet on so as no one can recognize his face. Sadly, all the moles and freckles made his countenance easy to place if anyone has ever heard of the king’s son. “Sure thing. Now come on, I have a tournament to win.”

\------

Once out at the ring, Stiles mounts his horse, Scott nervously standing at his side, lance in hand. “Last chance, Sti- Sir Otebon. You can still withdraw and not risk possible injuries or reprimand of your father…”

Stiles laughs and reaches out for the lance as the flag is readied. “Looks like it’s past time to withdraw. It’s time to joust. Wish me luck, Scotty.”

Scott sighs heavily as he hefts up the lance for Stiles to grab hold of the hilt, voice low as he spoke. “Good luck, you idiot…”

The flag is waved and both riders spur on their horses to rush towards one another. Stiles expertly lowers his lance and aims perfectly for the man’s chest. At the last second, he can see his adversary turn his head up slightly to protect his eyes, a flaw that most jousters had so as not to lose their sight when the lances splintered and flew away from the point of impact. Stiles never let his gaze stray from his target. It allowed a sure hit as long as he held true to his lance.

His lance breaks against the other man’s chest and he simultaneously rolls his torso to allow his opponent's lance to slip past him as their horses continued forward. This interaction gives him two points for the broken lance and none for the other rider. They bring their horses around to their starting positions and Stiles sees Scott hurrying forward to grab the horse’s reins to straighten him out as Stiles throws the broken lance shaft off to the side.

“Great move. Keep it up.”

Stiles smiles and opens the front of his helmet to look down at Scott, winking. “Thanks, that’s the plan, Scotty boy.” Scott rolls his eyes and hands up the next lance. Once he has a good grip, the flag waves for the next round. Again, Stiles urges his horse forward to meet the opponent halfway down the lane. His lance lands a blow solidly on the man’s breastplate, causing the lance to shatter. This time around, the other lance does hit Stiles, catching him on the shoulder and glancing off. The score becomes six to one and Stiles smiles behind his helmet, knowing that his first round was going to end in a win.

After two more rounds, Stiles wins with ten points compared to his challenger’s four. Scott helps him pull off his armor once they get back to the tent. “That was awesome, Scotty. You can’t disagree that I did amazing!”

Scott scoffs with a fond smile playing on his lips. “Yes, oh humble one, you did well.”

Stiles laughs and runs his fingers through his soaked hair, making it even more disheveled than it is on a daily basis. Once the preliminaries were over, he would get to joust again. He flops down into the chair and sprawls his legs out. “This is the best. I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner.”

Scott shakes his head. “Because you didn’t have Danny who’s an expert in faking papers for these type of events. If you had tried, you would have been caught easily.”

Stiles pouts and crosses his arms. “You’re a real downer today, Scotty.” He reaches out to pick an apple off the small table, biting into it and ignoring the juice that runs down his wrist. Loud cheers can be heard from the ring. “Someone must be popular…”

Scotty tilts his head and walks out of the tent, probably going to get a better look at the cause of the commotion while leaving Stiles all alone. Damning the fact that he can’t leave his tent without bothering to tug on the armor and helmet, he resigns himself to nibbling at his apple as the crowd continues to cheer from the stands. It wouldn’t have been weird if they had been able to hear cheering this loud before, but this was a first of the day, so something big must be happening.

Stiles sits in relative silence, excluding the swish of the material of his pant leg as it bounces restlessly. The cheers grow louder, if that is even possible, and then die down as apparently the entertainment ends. Scott appears at the tent’s entrance a few minutes later, shaking his head with a low whistle.

“You have your work cut out for you, Stiles. This guy is good.”

Stiles frowns and pops up out of his chair. “What do you mean?”

Scott shrugs, giving him an apologetic look. “The dude everyone is cheering for? Apparently, he recently entering the jousting scene and has quickly become everyone’s favorite. He’s exceptional. There was no contest between him and his opponent.”

The prince runs his fingers through his hair once again, sighing heavily. After a few moments of deliberation, he smiles brightly. “Well, this is great. I’ll finally have some competition. This will be a good experience for me.”

His best friend chuckles softly. “That’s the spirit…”

They wait until the preliminaries are over before suiting up once again for the ride. Once at the ring, he knows he isn’t against the crowd favorite when upon introduction the man only gets a few loud cheers. Stiles receives more than him quite easily, but nothing to the lengths of the mystery jouster he heard about.

The joust is over quickly, Stiles earning ten points before his opponent got to five. This time, after his ride, he sends Scott to take care of his horse and lances while he sticks around to watch the next round. When the crowd gets noisy, Stiles knows he’s in for firsthand experience of this amazing new jouster.

The man atop the strongly muscled pure black horse appears stately and concentrates only on the ring before him, not bothering for theatrics of any sort for the crowd. His aid is a tall dark-haired woman who holds the lance as if it weighs nothing. When she raises it for the man to grab, he bends down low so that she can talk with him pretty intimately. Stiles vaguely wonders if they are related or lovers, but he quickly dislodges that thought as the flag is waved and the riders spur on their horses.

Scott had been right. The man is a masterpiece. His riding style is perfection, the ease at which he lowers and aims the lance and his accuracy leave nothing to be desired. Stiles is mesmerized as he watches the match continue. The poor man put up against this jousting god doesn’t land a single hit on the black armored knight and it causes Stiles’ mind to cease working.

The knight rides his small victory lap without much celebration, seeming neither surprised at the outcome nor particularly interested in the event outside the jousting. Stiles would admit that celebrating was his favorite part. It gives him a jolt of joy to know that he did something well and was receiving praise based more so on his own abilities than who his father was. No one dares argue with him but probably think him spoiled when he voices his opinions about being the son of the most loved King and how difficult it truly was.

Stiles shakes himself out of his thoughts and turns on his heel, refusing to dwell on the fact that this new opponent is perfection personified in the sport. He runs into Scott, who had chosen to watch from afar, and he must be able to read something from his body language as Scott gives him a shrug and small grimace.

“Told you he was good.”

Stiles shoves him away, but laughs softly, pulling him to the side and risking to lift the eye shield enough so that he can clearly see his friend. “He’s more than good, Scotty. He’s flawless. I saw literally nothing to correct him on. He even kept his gaze on the target all the way through the impact. I’ve never seen anyone else do that like me. I could watch him all day and never get tired of analyzing his every move, graceful and calculated…” He pauses, not running out of things to say but at a loss of how to say them.

Scott raises his eyebrow and a slow smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “You…like him then?”

Stiles freezes and then scoffs. “Scotty, I don’t even know the man. But, yes, in a way I do.” He turns to look over his shoulder, back towards the ring where another contest was taking place. “I am very much in love with the way that he jousts.”

His best friend laughs hard, almost doubling over. When he glances up to Stiles, he sobers up only slightly at his bewildered expression. “Come on, I can’t be the only one who can take that the wrong way, Stil- Sir Otebon.”

Stiles thinks it over and then rolls his eyes. “Haha, Scotty. I really must say that if you weren’t my only and best friend, the way that you almost blow my cover every ten minutes would result in some type of job dismissal.”

Scott nods, eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m sure it would. But since I am and you need me, I have nothing to worry about.”

\------

Stiles easily makes it to the final round, having lucked out in not being paired up against the Jousting God. That’s what Stiles has decided to call the black-armored man since the name that was called when he was to joust just did not seem to fit the elegance and grace he showed while amount his steed.

Scott stands beside him with an expression of apprehension, the lance hugged tightly to his chest as the announcer goes on and on poetically about the Jousting God. Stiles has to admit, the man chose a great speaker to rile up the crowd before his championship joust. From where he sits, the man, about Stiles and Scott’s age, is rather feminine in appearance, a cap clinging haphazardly to his head, seemingly long hair tucked up under it. Stiles narrows his eyes as he continues to watch the speaker’s mannerisms and body language, listens closely to the pitch of the strong voice as it causes the crowd to roar appreciatively. Slowly, a smile forms over his lips, knowing the dirt on the young orator’s face isn’t just there from the road dust and sweat, but strategically placed to avert one’s attention from the obvious features that will give the person’s identity away.

He looks down to his best friend as the speaker finally finishes. “Alright, Scotty. This is it. We’ll see how well I can hold up against the crowd favorite.”

The tan boy smiles brightly albeit a bit uneasily as he holds up the lance for Stiles to grab ahold of. “Good luck. You’ll need it. Just don’t get too upset, okay?”

Stiles scoffs. “I shan’t be a poor loser, Scotty. If I lose, it only means I must train more and become better. But we shouldn’t speak of loss unless it actually happens, eh?” Scott nods eagerly and steps away as Stiles spurs on his horse when the flag is waved to begin the round.

His eyes train easily on his opponent, watch intently as the other man lowers his lance in a perfect arc to aim towards him. Stiles does the same, targeting the man’s chest and keeping his focus on the impact until the last few moments when his eyes flicker up to the Jousting God’s helmet, training in on the small space through which his opponent sees. The man doesn’t lift his head, just like Stiles expected, but he doesn’t expect the jolt that goes through him as he feels more than sees the other man’s eyes meeting his. Admittedly, the jolt may have come from his opponent’s lance breaking against his breastplate as his own hits but doesn’t break against the man’s armor-clad shoulder.

Stiles continues the ride around to his starting position, breath coming in heaving gasps as he tries to recuperate from the blunt force that had almost unseated him. Scotty runs to meet him, worry causing his expression to be tense as he grabs the reins to lead the horse. “Are you okay, Stiles? That didn’t look good…”

The prince grits his teeth and releases a heavy sigh. “No, Scotty. That man has the power of ten men behind his hit… No wonder he’s known for unseating most opponents…” Stiles had asked around in between his previous rounds after having watched Jousting God ride for the first time. He always did his research when he was interested in something, and this man had undeniably piqued his interest.

Scott winces and looks up at his friend. “Sure you want to continue?”

Stiles opens his helmet to glare down at his friend. “There are a lot of things that I am, Scotty, but a quitter is not one of them. Pass me my lance.” Scott sighs but does as he is told, knowing that arguing would get him nowhere at this point; Stiles was devoted to finishing this.

He closes the grate of his helmet and readies for the next ride, waiting for the flag to be waved. This time, he will not let himself be distracted. The bright yellow fabric is swayed and the two jousters again spur on their horses. Stiles focuses only on his technique and manages another glancing hit on the black-armored knight, his aim having been thrown off when his opponent’s lance blasted against his left shoulder and shattered.

Grimacing, he leans forward on his saddle, settling the lance across his lap for the ride back to the starting position. He didn’t quite know how he was taking these blows and not flying off his horse with how much power that is behind each hit. It hurt and he's having trouble breathing after each impact. The round goes much the same with Stiles losing in the end, a score of six to twelve, only having such a high score from lucking in a broken lance on the second to last ride.

Stiles painfully slides down from his horse and Scott catches him under his arm when his legs want to give out on him. Now, he is in no way a weak person, but Stiles will be the first to admit that he is made up of fragile bones and pale skin. Truly, his best and only defense is his sarcasm and word weaving.

After just a bit of time for gathering together all the scores, three top riders have their names called to come forward to retrieve their awards. Stiles straightens, gritting against the pain to walk to the front of the stands were the royals sit to watch the affair. He slows when he sees Jousting God stride toward the same destination but then picks up his speed to arrive there first. Childish, yes. Worth it so that the man would have to take a stand next to him instead of the other way around, absolutely.

He keeps his gaze forward until he sees motion through the side slit in his helmet. Stiles turns to see Jousting God removing his own and is glad to have kept his on when a deep blush and light gasp escapes him.

Jousting God is… amazingly handsome. His black hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, sweat that was dripping down his temple to a strong stubble covered jaw. Stubble that frames soft looking lips that Stiles will later be embarrassed over by his obscene thoughts. The man must feel his gaze as his eyes flicker over to him, a thick eyebrow rising slowly. Stiles’ attention is held by that expressive eyebrow before a harrumph brings his eyes down to meet blue… green, no brown?—whatever color they were—eyes. He bites his lip and gets lost for a moment before shaking himself free when the man in front of him smirks slightly.

“I’m sorry…what?”

The man shakes his head and faces forward again. “I was just commenting on how you’re noticeably scrawny even under that armor. I would say I’m impressed that I didn’t unseat you, but that might be giving you too much credit for what seems to have been luck.”

Stiles freezes for a second, first completely in shock at the soft voice that left the gruff man’s mouth and then in muted rage at the rudeness of his remark. “Excuse you—”

The announcer clears his throat, cutting off Stiles’ oncoming rant. “Congratulations, Sir Federyc, Sir Otebon, and Sir Hemming.” He raises his voice somewhat for the onlookers to hear. “In third place, Sir Federyc, winning two pounds.” He hands the man a bag of currency. “Sir Otebon places second, an award of a gilded helmet.” He goes to hand Stiles his prize, eyes clearly showing his contempt for him. Stiles knows it’s because he's showing mild disrespect for not having removed his helmet, but he couldn’t risk one of the nobles recognizing his face from afar. He accepts the gift and the announcer happily moves on to broadcast the first place winner. “And for the champion of this year’s tournament, Sir Hemming, actions deserving of this bejeweled golden clasp as well as five pounds.” The rude, but still ungodly handsome, man nods solemnly, face set in what must be a permanent glare, and accepts his award. With a few final words, the knights, and the crowd, are dismissed, the nobles and participants invited for the festivities later that night.

Stiles turns to continue his lecture on how rude it was to underestimate what must have been his most worthy opponent, but Jousting God is already walking away, heading back to his horse. The woman Stiles had seen earlier is smiling brightly and she rushes the few steps forward to throw her arms around Sir Hemming. 

The prince grimaces slightly when he turns abruptly away from the sickeningly sweet scene. His chest and ribs are protesting against every jarring step he takes back to Scott and his horse. When he gets there, Scott relieves him of the awarded helmet and clasps his upper arm. 

“Are you okay, Sir Otebon?” Stiles can’t help the chuckle that rises and causes his ribs to ache.

“Really, Scotty, now you get the name right?”

Scott huffs and glowers, tightening his hold as they walk through the crowd that presses in on them. “Stop deflecting. Are you okay or not?”

Stiles refrains from answering, clenching his teeth until they reach their tent. Once safely inside and away from prying eyes, he lifts his arms to remove his helmet and groans. His best friend quickly steps forward to aid him, lifting the helmet the rest of the way off and setting it aside. He then starts to unfasten his armor, tugging off the bracers and shoulder pads before lightly pulling the breastplate away from Stiles’ sore torso.

The prince lifts up his shirt and grimaces at the forming bruises. Scott lets out a low whistle. “Those are going to get bad…” He gently rests his fingertips against the largest and darkest bruise forming over his left pectoral. Stiles scowls down at his chest. 

“Hopefully they’ll heal up a bit on the journey home. Father would definitely notice if I was favoring an injury.”

Scott ushers him back to the cot they had set up, easing him down before going to look for some bandages to wrap up his chest. “Maybe we should skip the celebration tonight and start the ride home then? It’s not like you can enjoy the festivities anyway.”

Stiles nods sullenly. “It’s not as if I can attend. Wearing a helmet to hide my identity is acceptable in the ring, but not in the ballroom.”

His best friend pushes his arms up so that he can begin to wrap his torso with the bandages. “I wouldn’t have put it past you to find a way."

The prince chuckles softly and immediately regrets it, moaning softly. “Just get me wrapped up so that we can pack up the tent. Travelling will be slow going with this and Father expects me home within the fortnight.”


	2. The King's Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a few weeks after Stiles meets Jousting God and he's back home. His father decides to celebrate his son's birthday with a tournament and ball, which leaves Stiles in giddy excitement as he hopes to see the knight one more time.

Stiles groans internally as he sits down at the table with the king for breakfast. His bruises are healing nicely, but his ribs tweak if he moves even the slightest bit wrong. “Morning Dad.”

His father smiles warmly at him as servants begin to bring in the platters with food on them now that the king’s son has arrived. Stiles smiles at Nathanial as he pours Stiles his drink and his father clears his throat softly. “You’ll be turning twenty soon, son.”

Stiles grins brightly and nods. “That’s right.”

His father sighs down at his plate, a plate filled with too much green and not enough meat in his opinion. Shaking his head, he looks back to his son. “So I was thinking, for your birthday, I’d arrange something that you could truly enjoy as your years of fun slowly give way to more and more responsibility.”

The prince groans softly. “Don’t remind me…”

He smiles and continues. “So I’m planning to have a jousting tournament and ball in your honor.”

Stiles' eyes widen. “Are… Really? That would be amazing!” His body starts to vibrate with excitement, thinking about how great it will be to have a tournament here at home, even if he can’t exactly participate. Then his thoughts fly in a strange direction as he pictures the black-armored knight atop his horse and then the same knight with his helmet tucked under his arm and his damp hair plastered to his gorgeous face, hanging over his indescribable eyes—

The young man shakes his head violently to dislodge such thoughts. He wasn’t sure what caused such a rabbit trail but it did confirm one thing: he couldn’t wait to see that man joust again. And this time, he’ll get to see every round from start to finish. Maybe he’ll pick up a thing or two if he analyzes the Jousting God’s technique well enough.

He smiles happily at his father as he quickly shovels in a few bites of food, swallowing everything without barely chewing. Then he’s up out of his seat and hurrying around the table to hug his father from behind tightly, not even regretting the twinge of pain in his ribs in his joy. He kisses his dad’s temple. “Thank you so much! This will be one of the best birthdays!”

The king chuckles and pats his son’s arm lovingly. “Right, of course, it will be. Now go. I know you’re dying to tell Scott and weasel your way into the planning for the event.”

Stiles laughs brightly and squeezes his father once more before scurrying off to do just as he had said.

\------

The prince bounces up and down on his feet insistently as Scott buttons the collar of his sleeves. Or tries to, since Stiles’ hands keep wrenching out of his grip with every new sentence that the boy utters.

“This is going to be so fun, Scotty. Granted, I don’t get to participate, so it will not be as entertaining as it could, but I can’t exactly complain. I know a lot of knights have already sent notice of their attendance and by the looks of it, this’ll be a great tournament.” He pouts slightly as his thoughts fly to the black armored jouster. He hadn’t received any form of contact from Jousting God, confirming neither his attendance nor non-attendance. He chews on his bottom lip furiously at the mere inclination that he wouldn’t be blessed with more luck of seeing that man joust, getting to maybe even catch him afterward at the ring or maybe even the ball. Talking to him. He jitters in spot again as he shakes himself from his train of thought. 

Scott pinches Stiles’ arm and causes the prince to give a gasp of surprise, his amber eyes turning to give his friend a look of betrayal. He smirks as he is finally able to button the second sleeve. “You’ll get to go down to the check-in stand quicker if you stop jerking out of my hands. Then you’ll be able to see who has come without sending notice.” His eyes twinkle with dark mirth as he glances up at Stiles. “Your dark knight, for instance?”

Stiles jumps back and rubs at the back of his neck. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Scotty. I don’t have a knight…” He ignores Scott’s quiet scoff and his brain clicks together with what Scott had said. He smiles brightly. “But going to see who’s signed up is a brilliant idea! Let’s go!” He runs out of his room, not waiting to see if Scott would follow since he always does, even if maybe sometimes he shouldn’t. Stiles is the first to admit that all his ideas aren’t necessarily the greatest, just not out loud to other people. 

Thanking his father’s agreement of him living in the older and less kept up wing of castle, he is able to easily avoid running into any of the royals that are staying with the king for his son’s birthday tournament. The last thing he wants to deal with is entertaining older vapid men and women who could care less about him and more about what good word he could give the king or the younger ones looking to make an impression on the future king in hopes of favors. He isn’t interested in all the political duties of the kingdom, feels too much like a dancing monkey side attraction to these people and not enough like an actual person. 

The grounds outside are steepled with tents and stands for the tournament. Blacksmiths, merchants, and knights alike set up wherever they can. Stiles smiles as he weaves through the growing crowd. People have been coming in for the joust steadily over the last week; sellers wanting to get the best locations and knights wanting to be settled in to have time to prepare for the games.

Finally making his way fully to the registration tables, he smiles brightly at the attendant. “How are the prospects?” Scott eventually catches up as Stiles tugs the list of the attending jousters and scans all the names quickly. His friend pants and wheezes, leaning against the table as he tries for breath. Stiles’ smirk slowly falls as he hands back the tablet. He grabs Scott’s elbow and sighs heavily, tugging him gently away.

“So?” Scott coughs softly but waves away Stiles steadying hand as he straightens out.

The prince sighs sadly. “He hasn’t registered…” He lets his mood stay down but then manages a smile. “But the list is extensive, it’ll still be a good tournament.” Scott pats him on the shoulder in sympathy as he takes the lead towards the practice ring.

“Hey, I know you’re disappointed… Why don’t we scope them out until the tournament later? I’m sure you’ll find someone else to fixate on for now.”

Stiles growls playfully but doesn’t dispute the idea. “Pretty sure no one will be as good as him, but I’ll have to make do.”

\------

Stiles sits down heavily next to his father in the royalty stands, still a tad depressed but the spirit of the evening is slowly lifting. His father turns to give him a smile that Stiles easily returns before turning to the first announcer as they begin to introduce their jouster.

The tournament is going rather smoothly, Stiles content and watching everyone’s techniques closely. He can’t help but critique something in every match, mentally commenting on how he wouldn’t make the same mistakes and how his Jousting God definitely would not. After a rather boring match, Stiles is leaning back in his chair a bit listlessly as the next opponents get ready.

Stiles’ eye jerk open from where he was lounging back, head tilted to the sun when he hears a certain voice take the arena to introduce their rider. He almost falls off his chair as he flails forward to confirm his suspicions. The dirt and raggedly clothed Harold from his last tournament is standing on the banister and Stiles quickly looks to the right and smiles happily when his gaze falls on a pitch black horse and its equally majestic rider.

The king notices his son’s perked up attitude and reaches over to his arm. “Somebody you know?”

Stiles doesn’t think much before answering, “He’s the best jouster out there.” He pauses and looks to his father. “I mean, that’s what I’ve heard on my travels anyway. I’m excited to see him in action.” He turns away and winces slightly at his fumbling but can’t find it in him to care much longer as the announcer finishes and the men are ready to start.

The flag is waved to start the joust and the horses are spurred forward. The prince doesn’t let his eyes wander off the dark armored man as he cradles the lance and aims straight for his opponent. Stiles follows every small movement to try and determine the man’s secret to his profound talent, and while he can see the greatness of the technique, it still eludes him. Regardless, he happily watches his Jousting God win his round. After the first two wins, Stiles focuses less on his technique and more and more just on the man himself, getting lost in his mannerisms and the personality that he personifies.

At the end of his final match, the championship of the tournament, Stiles’ knight wins and Stiles loudly claps along with the rest of the crowd, smiling brightly. On his ride around the ring, the knight pauses when a lady flags him down from the royalty stands. Stiles frowns and tries to lean forward to get a good look, heart dropping when he accepts a token from Lady Braeden. He falls back into his chair heavily as he continues to clap but with much less enthusiasm. 

It doesn’t make full sense why he’s so hurt by seeing the knight accept someone else’s token, but nevertheless his mood darkens slightly as the top three jousters are brought before the stands. He watches Jousting God as he dismounts his horse, tucking the handkerchief into his breastplate as he comes to stand beside second and third place. 

Feeling a gentle nudge to his ribs, he jumps from his rather depressed stupor to look to his father, who is giving him an odd look. “The awards, son,” his father says quietly and Stiles gasps softly, standing and heading down the steps too quickly, causing himself to stumble slightly. No one laughs, used to their prince’s flailing, but when Stiles stands in front of the top jousters he glances to Jousting God and undoubtedly imagines the small smirk on his sinfully soft lips, but still produces a soft blush over his cheeks.

He clears his throat and takes the third place award from the attendant. “Sir Francis, congratulations on third place. For you, three pounds.” He smiles softly as the knight bows and accepts the payment. “Sir Thomas, congratulations on second place. For you,” he hands over the gilded plate and 3 pounds. He takes a slow and steadying breath as he looks to Jousting God, whose eyes were piercing as they met his own. 

“And Sir Hemming. Congratulations on first place, you showed exemplary jousting today.” He slowly hands over the gold horse and jouster, fingers brushing against the knights as he quietly adds on, “thank you for coming…” Jousting God’s eyes flicker with some kind of thought before Stiles rushes to step back and say louder, “Thank you all for coming and participating in the tournament in honor of my birthday. I greatly enjoyed your sport and invite you all to enjoy the ball this evening.” He turns, but not before his eyes glance once more to his knight…

Who is already turning and walking back to his horse and attendant, the woman smiling brightly and hugging him tightly. Stiles internally sighs and heads back to his father, to sit and be made to speak to the few royals that linger. The rest will undoubtedly find him and his father during the ball, joy. Once again, Stiles finds his eyes wandering to seek out the only interesting person here, the knight in the black armor leading his horse out of the arena.

\------

Stiles groans loudly as Scott helps him into his formal wear for the ball. “He was just…so perfect out there. I am filled with jealousy at how easy he makes jousting look. I’m going to have to practice for years before I can beat him.”

His best friend huffs as he fixes the cuffs of his jacket. “You really don’t have years, Stiles. Your father will be expecting you to do more if not take over soon. And you know that.”

The prince deflates and falls onto his bed. “Of course…you’re right. I know, I just- I really wish I could prove myself to him. That I’m more than just lucky, that I’m-“

Scott smiles softly and sits next to his prince, throwing a brotherly arm around his shoulders. “Stiles, you never felt the need to prove yourself before. You are a good jouster, one of the best! Just because this Sir Hemming beat you doesn’t automatically take away your own talent.” He squeezes his shoulder, a mischievous glint overtaking his brown eyes. “I think you want to get his attention for a different reason… Maybe give him your own token that he’d accept after a match, hmm?”

Stiles flounders away from him and stands, pacing. “Ah! No, no, Scott. That’s not what this is about.” He pauses, chewing on the skin around his thumbnail nervously. 

Scott sighs and stands, thankfully dropping the subject for now. “Okay, if you say so. Now come on, your father will be waiting on you to announce you to the ballroom.”

The prince withers further. “Great, send me off to my torture.”  
Scott smiles and pushes him toward the door. “Sorry, buddy. It’s my job, and yours.” Stiles grumbles at the reminder of his fast approaching, boring future and heads down to the ballroom with Scott.

\------

Stiles slips out onto the balcony through the cracked doorway before letting out a loud sigh. He strides over to lean against the railing, hands coming up to cover his face as he tries to get some fresh air away from all the mingling he’s forced to do.

Rustling cloth startles him into spinning around, eyes catching sight of a figure in dark clothes as they pause from their attempt towards the door from the shadows. They bow slightly. “Sorry for startling you, your highness. I’ll leave you now.”

Stiles startles further at the voice before reaching out. “Oh no! Don’t leave.” He winces when Sir Hemming steps further into the moonlight and raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you were here first and…it’s a big enough balcony for us both to hide.”

The knight huffs quietly. “Who said I was hiding?”

Stiles nervously fidgets with his cuffs, biting his lip for a moment. “I, well… I guess you don’t have to be.”

The man watches him silently before glancing through the doorway and then moving to lean against the railing a few paces away from Stiles.   
“It’s awfully crowded in there.”

Stiles sighs and nods, melting back against the banister. “It really is. I can only handle it for so long before I just want to run away.” They slip in silence, Stiles taking furtive glances at the knight from the corner of his eye. Tapping his fingers along the rail for a minute, he notices when the man turns slightly towards him, eyes glaring down at his twitching hands. He hurries to clasp them against his stomach before blurting out, “You were outstanding today!”

Sir Hemming frowns and looks over his shoulder to the ballroom and Stiles figures he probably wants to run away from him just as much as he wants to flee the crowd. He hangs his head and sighs. “Sorry, you came out here for peace. I’ll shut up.” The knight nods slightly and quiet reigns for just a few more seconds before Stiles bursts forth in a step closer to Hemming. “What’s your secret?”

Sir Hemming flinches back but Stiles feels the need to continue on regardless. "You have the power of an ox behind your hits, but power isn't all you need in jousting. You even keep eye contact through the whole impact, nobody does that. You're brave. And from what I've seen- I mean heard, you never lose. So, what is it that you do to be so successful?"

The knight frowns, his eyebrows taking on a menacing air of their own. After long seconds of nothing, Stiles fumbles over himself to step back and look away. “Sorry… I’m just going to-” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and goes to turn and leave.

“Why are you so interested?” The soft cadence of the stern question has Stiles pausing and looking back to the knight, mouth opening and closing in a vain attempt at coming up with a good answer. Sir Hemming watches him closely before looking back out over the fields, tents, and tables in various stages of packing. “It just seems a bit odd for a prince to want to know so much about me- about jousting.”

Stiles blushes a bit but moves back to the banister. “I’ve always enjoyed jousting, ever since my mom and I went to a tournament when I was young.” He pauses, caught off guard by his own mentioning of his late mother. “I was captivated by the sport, I suppose. And I’ve just never seen someone have such a strong talent for it.” He doesn’t add on his newfound fascination in more than just the sport, with his obsession seeming to have shifted more to the man beside him.

The knight is silent before huffing softly. “There is no real secret.” Stiles leans closer, waiting for what seems to be the man leading up to more of an answer. “A lot of it is having a strong horse, a steady aim, and courage to take a hit.” Stiles nods along with all of this, making an agreeable sound. Hemming looks at him and frowns, apparently having been done but seeing that the prince wanted more. “What more do you want to know?”

Stiles groans softly. “You’re just lucky? I can’t believe that, Sir Hemming. You unhorse almost every opponent you take on. There’s definitely something special about you.”

The knight makes a soft strangled noise and looks away when Stiles tilts his head and glances at him; he could swear the tops of his ears were tinged red. The man clears his throat. “Nothing special. Just practice.” Stiles nods and examines the profile of his companion, taking in his artfully sculpted beard and shining eyes from the moon. He bites his lip as the man speaks some more, “A whole lot of nothing to lose and a love for the game.”

The prince pauses, caught up in what the knight had said. The man always seemed so distant and uninterested when in front of the crowd “celebrating” his victories. Stiles just didn’t see love in his actions, it almost appeared like a hassle. But then, after this short conversation, maybe the knight in front of him just doesn’t show his emotions as easily as Stiles. 

He slowly smiles, warming up to Sir Hemming even further, and moves a bit closer before leaning on the rail next to the jouster. “Hmm, thank you for sharing that, Sir Hemming. And thanks again, for coming to participate in the tournament. You may not believe it, but it really did make my day.” He feels his cheeks heat up with the admission, but doesn’t regret it as the man turns his gaze to him. Stiles tilts his head forward and looks back, smiling softly when it looks like the knight may say something.

“Der-” The two men are startled by the voice that calls from inside and stops when the woman steps out and sees the couple. Stiles wilts as he takes in the countenance of Lady Braeden, here to take away the knight he was just starting to get to know more. “There you are, Sir Hemming. I was looking for you to congratulate you,” Stiles can see the man nod silently, pushing away from the balcony railing.

Stiles waves his hands quickly. “It’s about time that I head back inside. My father is probably upset with my hiding away at my own birthday ball.” He holds his hand out to the knight. “Thanks for the conversation, I enjoyed the company.” The man looks between his hand and his face a few times before he takes it and bows slightly. Stiles smiles and lets their touch linger for a while before he reluctantly pulls away and heads to the doors. Lady Braeden curtsies as he passes, causing his smile to turn just a bit brittle before losing it completely when the door clicks shut as he walks away.

In the midst of the evening, Stiles had almost forgotten that the knight had accepted the token of the young maiden. But now looking back, he can visualize the handkerchief peeking out the pocket of the knight’s jacket, much to his disappointment. Not twenty seconds back into the ballroom, Stiles was pulled into a conversation with two older countesses who try to hint at their daughters for potential mates, causing the prince’s stomach to churn. 

Eventually, he goes through all the pleasantries he can handle and he goes to make his exit, but not before letting his eyes roam the entire room a few times. It was a hopeless dream to catch sight of the knight at this point. Lady Braeden clearly seemed interested in the tournament champion and Stiles didn’t blame her, nor did he blame Sir Hemming for taking up her offer. However, it didn’t make his heart feel any better as he met Scott in the hallway on the way to his room. All he knew was that he had a lot of practice in his near future because he vowed to become an even better jouster in order to show his knight how much he also loved the game.


	3. His Last Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has been endlessly training since he last saw Sir Hemming, and he's excited to soon be able to show the knight just how much he has improved over the months. However, the tournaments he has gone to since his birthday have all lacked Jousting God in attendance.
> 
> Bad news strikes when his father's councilors all agree that it's time for Stiles to find a spouse, and his days of traveling the lands for tournaments draw to a close. But his dad pulls through for him, letting him have one last joust before the matchmaking begins - Stiles just hopes that his knight will be there this time.

Stiles has been to four tournaments since his birthday 10 months ago. Honestly, he wishes he could have traveled to more, but home has become more demanding as his father lays more princely responsibilities on his shoulders and his excuse of rowdy young age grows weaker. Not that he holds any kind of grudge against his father, obviously he knew the day would come when he had to sacrifice his relatively carefree lifestyle of action and adventure for a more settled political body. 

However, he wasn’t quite ready to take that final step. Stiles has practiced as often as he can while on the road as well as back home. Sneaking off into a clearing in the woods early in the day or late in the evening, sometimes with Scott but mostly with just his horse, to uncover his hidden gear and set up his practice equipment. Stiles wanted to become the best that he could. And when he did, he wanted to meet Sir Hemming once again to show how much he had improved and all the implications that improvement meant.

As of now, he had yet to see hide nor hair of the jouster since the ball and Stiles wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. It should be seen as fortunate, as it has given him ample time to improve his game without the stress of meeting his only real rival in the arena. But the prince can’t help but feel disappointed every time he scans the lists at each tournament. He also grows worried for the man, wondering why he wasn’t participating in the games. Though Stiles easily soothes said worry by explaining to himself that it was far more likely the knight just hadn’t made it to the four Stiles had been able to attend. There were plenty of other big and small tournaments all over the country, as well as the neighboring kingdoms as well.

At the moment, Stiles was tiredly bringing his horse into the stables from a late afternoon training session, using his forearm to wipe his brow, smudging dirt on his face. He quickly and thoroughly rubs and brushes down his steed, preferring to do it himself because a strong bond with your jousting horse was always essential. After giving the horse one last loving pat through the stall door, Stiles heads inside to clean up for dinner.

Scott greets him near his room, looking a bit shifty-eyed as moves to help the prince undress, a tub of warm water already waiting for him. Stiles waves him off though and quickly drops his dirty clothes to the floor. “What’s with the face?”

His friend startles slightly, dropping the sweaty tunic back on the ground from where he had been picking it up. “Nothing. What do you mean?” 

Stiles sinks into the tub before methodically starting to clean off the layers of dirt on his skin. “Don’t treat me the fool, Scott. I can always tell when you’re hiding something. You really are the worst liar.”

Scott bites his lip before shrugging. “I- Really, it may be nothing. There are just a few rumors amongst the kitchen.” When nothing else seems forthcoming, Stiles makes a grunting acknowledgment, pressing for more. Scott seems to reluctantly continue. “About rooms in the east wing being cleared out for…guests.”

This information causes Stiles to freeze his actions. The east wing was never used unless they had company. And not just normal company, the kind of company that demanded to be equally pampered and expected whole wings just for one or two people. His eyes slowly drift from the bathwater to his best friend, who seems to be trying to shrink away. “And do these rumors say why?” The last time the rooms were cleaned was for all the guests ten months ago. For it to be happening again, and without a cause that Stiles was aware of, was unnerving to say the least.

The boy shakes his head. “Nothing that I would say is conclusive enough to share with you.” He winces, “If it is what some of the others are saying…it may be best to hear it from your father.”

That has Stiles’ blood running cold as he quickly finishes up and leaps from the bath to towel off. As he gets dressed and heads out of his room to dinner, he grips Scott’s bicep tightly. “Thanks for the warning…” Scott nods and gives him what he supposes is a reassuring smile as he splits off from his friend to head in the other direction, but Stiles really won’t be consoled until he finds out what’s going on.

Walking into the dining room, he smiles at his father, taking a seat across from him. “Hey, Dad.”

The king smiles at him fondly. “Son.” But his smile fades slowly and Stiles’ worry skyrockets. He’s left in some suspense as their food is brought out to them, and as soon as the last person walks out, he turns wide, pleading eyes onto his father.

“Please tell me what’s going on. Scott said-”

His father holds up his hand to stopper the flow of words that were no doubt only getting started. “Stiles, we need to talk.”  
Stiles sinks down into his chair, “That’s not very encouraging, Pops…”

His dad smiles slightly before sighing. “I tried to let you have your fun while I could, kiddo, I really did. But at the urging of most, well, all my councilors…they say it’s time you start to settle down.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Okay, I’ll cut down on traveling. I can do that.” Even though he wanted to travel more. There was no way he would run into Sir Hemming again if he didn’t get out to as many tournaments as he could. Going to one maybe two a year cut his chances down to practically zero.

But his father is shaking his head. “No. Not just the traveling, Stiles. They, well, we really because I do need you to be ready to take over should anything happen.” Stiles goes to argue that he had no intentions of losing his father yet but the king again stops him. “It’s prudent, Stiles. You know what fiasco could arise if you aren’t fully prepared.” The prince nods reluctantly and his father continues. “So, it’s time for you to perhaps start courting for a wife.”

Stiles is floored. He was only twenty, close to twenty-one but still. Why must he suddenly go searching for a wife? Never in a million years did he think he would hear those words from his father. Then again, this was coming more so from his king than his father.

He shakes his head. “But…” Stiles sighs, knowing there was really no argument in which he could employ towards this situation. By all means, his father had already given him three or four years more than most others in his position were allowed. Dejectedly nodding his head, he politely stands, “I understand, Father. Would you please excuse me?”

His dad looks like he wants to say more, to somehow assuage the hurt his son was feeling, but he seems to realize little could do such. The king waves him along kindly. “Of course, son.”

Stiles bows slightly, oddly formal, before slowly making his way out of the room. Once through the doors with them closed behind him, he runs to the stables, quickly re-saddling his horse and riding out to his secret practice area, tree branches and leaves whipping past his face in his urgency to just get away. 

Once there, he does little more than hop of his horse and fall to the ground near his hidden lance and other gear. He doesn’t cry or anything of the such, but he does wallow for quite a while, long past the time of sunset. His mind is stuck on only one thing really. Stiles didn’t care about needing to settle down, he didn’t care that he was sooner rather than later going to be made to be here permanently other than political travels. What he was most hurt about was losing his chance to joust against Sir Hemming. Months and months of hard work were going to be worthless if he didn’t get to show the knight how much love he put into it all. But really, he realizes with a start, he just wasn’t going to see the man at all, and he beings to think that was even worse.

His body had long lost the heat it had held when Stiles hears hooves creaking over the forest floor towards his clearing and he numbly turns to see his father’s steed coming to a halt before the man climbs down and heads over to his son. Stiles bites his lip when his father silently takes a seat next to him on the ground, eyes unconsciously glancing to his gear, not so well hidden from their seats. The king simply stretches out his legs, leaning back on his hands into a reclining position.

“I met your mom when I was twenty-one.” Stiles tilts his head, eyes scanning the side of his father’s face, but the king keeps his gaze towards the night sky peeking through the treetops. “I was actually already courting someone your grandparents had picked out for me after years of my procrastinating finding a companion. But your mother walked into my life and suddenly I didn’t want to procrastinate anymore. It was a little messy at first, considering the other woman’s father was none too pleased.” He winces, most likely due to the awkward memories. “I would face a thousand angry fathers though, just so that I could have the light of your mother’s smile in my life.” Stiles smiles softly, sadly trying to recall the smile that he hasn’t seen in over ten years.

His father finally turns to look at him. “I’m not going to force you into anything, son. All I’m asking is that you actually start to consider it, maybe try to interact more than with just Scott.” The prince sighs heavily but nods, causing his dad to smile and sling an arm around his shoulders, tugging him in against his side. “I love you, kiddo. I do want you to be happy.”

Stiles wraps his arms around his dad in return and squeezes. “I know, Dad. I understand. And I am happy.”  
They stay in companionable silence for a few minutes before his father pulls away. “Well, these old bones can’t handle the chill like they used to.” He groans as he slowly stands from the grass. “Let’s get back, yeah?” Stiles smiles and takes his hand, letting his father haul him up.

After mounting their horses, they trot back to the castle. Stiles takes his father’s reins when they dismount. “I’ll take care of them, you go ahead.”

His father smiles and claps his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Thanks, son.” He heads to the stable’s exit before turning back to Stiles. “You know, it’ll take a while for the east wing to be good enough for visitors.” Stiles tilts his head, eyes squinting at his dad, wondering where this was leading. “Not to mention the time it would take to properly contact the eligible nobility. I’d say at least a fortnight.” He smiles conspiratorially. “Plenty of time to get to Lord Charles’ tournament and back. Get one last win under your belt after all your hard work.”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat. How did his father-? His gaping mouth sets his father off in low chuckles. “Come on, Stiles. I’m your father. Did you really think I had no idea where you disappeared to all the time?” He huffs one last laugh before turning away and slipping out the stable doors. “Goodnight, son.”

The prince stands in awe for a few lingering moments before a bright smile spreads across his face. While untacking and brushing down the horses, Stiles mentally makes all the preparations for his last joust, needing to tell Scott about their last journey. As he leaves the stables, he can’t help but be giddy with the strange surety that this was him getting a last chance just for the reason of getting to joust against his current obsession.

\------

The tournament was going rather smoothly when it all went downhill in a matter of seconds. Scott was tightening his bracer and about to hand him his lance when the herald of his current opponent suddenly runs forward, rushing towards his rider’s family crest hanging on the score podium. Stiles frowns behind his helmet, eyes narrowing in confusion before the unraveled white flag catches his attention. With a gasp, Stiles realizes that the other knight was withdrawing.

At his knee, he sees Scott’s head whip up to look at him, eyes wide. Stiles shrugs down at him before looking across the way at the forfeiting knight. The man raises his lance in the air in a show of respect and Stiles sighs heavily before returning the motion. Once the other man turns on his horse to leave the arena, Stiles hands the lance back to Scott and jumps down angrily.

“Stiles,” Scott hisses quietly to him, but the prince ignores him as he grabs the reins of his horse and heads out. There is no other reason for the knight’s withdrawal. There couldn’t be. The man isn’t injured as he had barely taken a hit in his previous rounds. So it was the inevitable, the one thing Stiles hated most.

Inside his tent, Stiles kicks a rucksack angrily, sending it across the floor as he yanks off his helmet. Scott is close behind him, grabbing his arm when he goes to fling the armor. Stiles groans, fight going out of him as he sinks into a chair. “They found out. They have to know who I am now, why else would they withdraw?”

Scott worries at his lip before going over to his friend, a hand laying lightly on his shoulder. “Perhaps… perhaps no one else knows? Maybe they didn’t tell anyone else. You might be able to ride the next one.”

A valet leans in through the curtain of the tent. “Sorry for the intrusion, sir. But you won’t be needed until the next round.” He eyes flicker off to the side, apparently not wanting to say the next part. “They informed the judges that they withdrew from their joust against you.” He bows slightly before backing out and Stiles turns cold eyes to Scott.

“Right, no one else knows.”

Scott grimaces and can’t help but smiles sheepishly as he takes his hand away from the prince’s shoulder.

\------

Stiles sighs as he rides his horse into the arena. He knew this was all formality now and couldn’t even get properly happy that he would be facing Sir Hemming. It was undoubtedly going to end in another withdrawal, and he isn’t shocked when he sees the dark knight’s squire, not the beautiful woman from before, speaking quickly with the man mounted on the black steed. The tall curly-haired boy turns to hasten to the scoring podium and Stiles watches in disappointed acceptance.

But then the crowd starts to roar and his head whips around to the run, seeing Sir Hemming spurring on his horse. Stiles’ heart stops for a split second before he whoops loudly and grabs the lance from a broadly smiling Scott. He gets his horse going as quickly as he can and locks the lance into the cradle just in time to catch Hemming’s shoulder, bursting his lance against his armor. The rush of the success lessens the pain of the other man’s lance breaking against his own arm.

Stiles sets up for the second lance and upon the flag, he and the dark knight race towards one another for another sweep. The prince locks in his gaze on his target and can’t help the large smile that bursts across his face as he takes a chance in jerking his wielding arm forward to increase the power behind the hit. Once again, they both break their lances against the other.

The stinging agony of the last hit aches high in his ribs and his right arm as he swings back around to set up for the last pass. Forcing his arm forward had definitely increased the strength behind his hit, but at the cost of injuring his own shoulder upon the impact since hitting the other knight felt like hitting a stone wall. Lifting the last lance put a strain on his arm that Stiles could barely take, but he breaths in deeply and sets himself for the run. No way was he going to not finish.

Yellow flag signaling the run, Stiles snaps the reins to get his horse going and winces as he tries to get the lance into the cradle. The zone of impact is fast approaching and the prince is lucky enough to struggle the lance into position just in time, but not soon enough to catch the dark knight’s core enough to break. His lance glances off the other rider’s left shoulder while Sir Hemming’s breaks once again in a dreadful blow to his chest, gaining beyond loud cheering from the crowd.

Slowly turning around after taking a moment to catch his breath through the oppressive weight of his gear, he sees the black horse sidling up to the banister at the center of the arena and takes it as an invitation to head there as well. Bringing his horse to a stop beside Sir Hemming’s, he winces a bright smile to the man across from him even though he can’t see it when the knight lifts the face mask of the helmet. The action reveals the not so subtle glare the man was sending him and Stiles shies away slightly.

“U-um. Great run, Sir Hemming.”

The other man says nothing as his eyes stay locked on Stiles’ through his visor. The prince is about to retreat when the knight nods slightly. “You did well. I don’t think you needed any advice from your competition, your highness.”

Stiles stutters for a moment before flipping open his helmet, quickly lowering the arm as a sharp pain shoots through it; yep, probably dislocated. A flutter of whispers rolls through the crowd as the ones closest to the ring recognize him. The thought flies to the background as he stares unbelievingly at the knight. “You- you knew? And yet you rode?!”

Sir Hemming raises an eyebrow and Stiles can’t help but feel very judged at the moment. “Of course. I never withdraw.” He raises his reins to snap his horse into a slow walk. “You wouldn’t ride under a fake name if you wanted to be forfeited your way to the top. I gave you what you wanted.” His horse strides away, leaving a shell-shocked prince in its wake. After a second of catching flies and watching the majestic man ride away, he spurs his own horse back towards Scott, who helps him down when he sees the discomfort on his friend’s face.

“Stiles, you’re hurt. We need to get you looked at. By a professional this time.”

Stiles waves him away. “Of course, of course. You’re right.” He looks over his shoulder once again, watching as the champions of the sword, arrow, and joust accept their prizes. As Scott starts to usher him away, Sir Hemming turns and his eyes lock immediately with the prince’s, causing a flush to take over the younger man’s cheeks as he looks away. If the man already hadn’t wormed his way into his heart through his jousting, he surly did it just now.

\------

Stiles is sitting at the small table in his tent, adjusting the cloth sling around his neck while Scott is outdoors, packing them up for the journey home. The doctor had slung his arm through a contraption that he cranked taunt before jerking his shoulder back into place. The initial pop was excruciating, but it was fleeting to the relief that he feels now. This soreness was nothing compared to the sharp pain of the dislocation. He’s inspecting the bruises that ripple along his ribs when a clearing throat has his gaze jerking to the entrance.

The figure standing in the light takes his breath away, lips parting in surprise to maybe invite him further in but giving up halfway as his eyes skim over the strong build of Sir Hemming in just his tunic and breeches, armor having been removed. After a few more seconds, the man clears his throat again and that gets Stiles jumping from his seat, yelping a “Come in” before wincing at the twinge the movement sends through his ribs and shoulder.

The knight steps further into the tent, letting the curtain fall closed behind him. His eyes glance around the space swiftly before landing on the prince, gaze turning dark as he takes in the bruises along his bare chest. A hot thrill runs through Stiles before he tries to cover his lithe but fairly muscle-less torso. Sir Hemming’s eyes flash back up to his face, and Stiles is sure his ears might be red.

“You’ve improved.”

Stiles smiles slightly and tilts his head, waiting for more but none seems forthcoming. Through a bit of somewhat awkward silence he says, “Thank you, I suppose.” He had wanted to somehow show off his hours and hours of practice to the man, but conversation seems a bit off the table from his companion, so he continues on himself. “You’re just as good as I remember.” He chuckles a bit humorlessly as he motions to his shoulder and ribs. “The same power of an ox.”

Hemming steps closer and lightly lays his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, causing him to wince in anticipation of a sting at the pressure. However, he is surprised when his shoulder seems to lose some of its ache. His eyes flit up to the knight’s, who is staring down at him intently. “I think if you hadn’t injured yourself with that last hit, the results of the joust would have been greatly different.” He slowly takes his hand away, leaving Stiles feeling lightheaded for various reasons. “That was a smart move. If I had been anyone else, you probably would have unseated me with that one.” All his words are said in the same soft but inflectionless tone, but the prince isn’t bothered.

Stiles breaks out into a bright smile. “Wow, that’s high praise coming from you, I can just tell.” Hemming huffs slightly and looks away, but there is a small tilt to the corner of his mouth, Stiles isn’t imaging it.

“Take it as you like.” The knight crosses his arms and looks back to the younger man. “I simply came to tell you good work, congratulations on besting most of your own kingdom’s knights. I do wonder what that says about your army.”

Stiles stands appalled before a laugh bursts forth and has him covering his giggles with his hand. “O-oh my gosh! I can’t believe-” He dissolves again into chuckles and when he finally calms enough to look back to the knight, the man’s cheeks are lightly flushed and his eyes are crinkling in a smile. “That is gutsy, Sir Hemming. Badmouthing a prince’s armed forces right to his face.”

The champion shrugs. “I have a feeling you don’t mind much.” He nods and turns to head to the exit. “Until next time, your highness.”

Stiles’ smile fades and he sighs sadly, which causes the man to stop and glance back at him, an eyebrow raised in question. The prince forces a small smile. “I’m afraid this is the last time. I am to settle down, to start a search for a wife. This tournament itself was a condolence gift from my father.” He smiles for real this time. “I am glad I got to joust you once more before having to quit.”

The knight’s brows furrow grumpily throughout his little revelation, making Stiles wonder what bothered him, and has him standing in silence before he gives a small bow. “Then, the honor was mine. Goodbye, your highness.”

Stiles sighs softly as the man exits, the curtain closing to what he thinks was probably the shortest, most confusing but most exhilarating chapter of his life. “Goodbye…”


	4. A Different Kind of Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles misses jousting. He missing jousting, hates matchmaking, and is slowly falling into a slump. The only brightness to his dreary days comes when he receives word of Sir Hemming's wins in local tournaments. He may not get to participate anymore, but hearing about the knight's success lightens his heart - even as it makes him miss the man even more.
> 
> When an opportunity arises for Stiles to see Sir Hemming joust in person one more time, he is quick to take it. Only, things don't go exactly as planned when the tournament begins.

The prince’s twenty-first birthday comes and goes, the summer slowly fading into the fall months of rain and chill. And just like how the days go from sunny and warm to gray and dreary, so does Stiles’ mood. He’s been working on the various political projects his father has given him to work his way into his position. All of that has been completely fine, no complaints from Stiles whatsoever. It’s the other aspect of his to-be-king “training” that has him in minor depression.

Lady Hannah politely lays a hand over Stiles’ where it rests on the table between them, startling the prince slightly from his thoughts. He looks up at her from where his eyes had been mindlessly wandering over the small gathering in his home of young nobility from nearby lands. There had been a few one on one visits and meetings from the closest prospects, but when Stiles didn’t make any sort of commitment, the councilors started to plan these little parties.

Stiles hates them. All the people present just rub him wrong as they try to woo their way into a royal house. Honestly, he was tired of everyone waxing poetic about him and what he would gain in marrying them, none of them were subtle. The king himself wasn’t too keen on these gatherings either, but he had pointed out that even if a marriage didn’t come forth from them, good relations with the nobility was always good to ensure.

The prince smiles stiffly at the woman. She had come over to introduce herself and had been talking kindly about something other than herself, a rare occurrence, but Stiles just couldn’t find the good graces to care. He was tired of this game and his bad attitude was spreading to the people, as unfair as that may be.

Taking his hand out from under the lady’s, he uses it to brush through his hair, hoping the movement did not come off as rude. Her touch just wasn’t the one his body seems to be craving since all those months ago, soft where it was expected to be firm and equally as mind-dizzying. “I’m sorry milady, my mind was elsewhere…”

The woman smiles and tilts her head, eyes taking on a much more inquisitive gleam that had Stiles slightly unnerved. “I had heard rumors that you seemed uninterested in these events, but I think it has less to do with not wanting to find someone and more about how you already have.”

The prince gapes rather unattractively at the girl, causing her to laugh softly. “I’m right? I thought it was a long shot, but decided to go for it nonetheless.” Stiles huffs softly, offended at the trickery but also holding a small amount of respect for the ploy. Hannah shifts in her seat to lean forward in interest. “Is it a commoner?” Her eyes shift to the door, where Stiles had walked into the room, clapping Scott on his shoulder in farewell before feeding himself to the wolves. “Or is it one of your helpers?” Stiles bristles a bit at her audacity but she quickly waves him away. “Sorry, I mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to understand why you haven’t announced anything to get out of these…” She frowns at the space around them. “Festivities?”

Stiles sighs and sinks back into his seat into a fairly unprincelike position. “It’s not like that, Lady Hannah, I can assure you.” She seems to want to disagree, but at that moment a servant comes in to announce that dinner was ready and the nobility was ushered into the dining room.

Throughout supper, Stiles can’t keep his thoughts on the present company. His mind flashes back to Sir Hemming’s stern and regal composure atop his steed before a joust and then to the moment he stood in the entryway of his tent, looking a bit ruffled and sweaty after the tournament but still beautiful. He had taken the opportunity to regard the man fully, and if he wasn’t mistaken, Sir Hemming had done the same. This makes him wonder if he had a chance; that if he had asked, would the knight have come to his home to meet his father and-

He mentally shakes off his train of thought. There are so few instances of royalty marrying a same-sex partner. It isn’t frowned upon, precisely, but the question of descendants always came into play, especially for those seeking political power and was willing to do anything for it. And Stiles couldn’t forget the night in which his conversation was interrupted by Lady Braeden. If that was Sir Hemming’s type, then Stiles was not the woman for him.

Though, that hasn’t stopped him from getting regular updates on his Jousting God. If Sir Hemming participated in a tournament, Stiles knew about it. Scott has informed him that stalking shouldn’t be a part of his ten-year plan to court the knight, which promptly got him shoved to the ground in a wrestling match in the hallway leading out of his rooms, princely composure be damned.

And the news Stiles so covets is always good, Sir Hemming easily being the top of all his competitors. This is no surprise to the prince, but he does get oddly warm and fuzzy with pride that the man he admires in so many ways is successful in what he does.

The dinner finally winds down after a lot of conversation that Stiles somehow navigates without much attention. As his visitors file past him and out the door he bows to each and kisses the back of the ladies’ hands if they are offered. Once they are all on their way to either carriages to leave or their respective rooms for the night, he slumps against the wall and lets his head fall into his hands, groaning. This farce couldn’t end soon enough.

\------

“Stiles!”

The prince looks up from the paperwork he was occupied with in the library to see Scott tumbling through the stacks back to his desk. He was gasping heavily so Stiles tries to contain himself from questioning his friend until he could properly breathe. When it no longer appears that Scott might keel over, he raises his eyebrows. “What is it, Scotty?”

His friend’s smile disarms him slightly and he leans forward in his chair. “Lord Gregor is holding a jousting tournament for his son’s 15th birthday.”

Stiles frowns for a moment, wondering how this information was of any importance to him specifically. Scott must see this confusion because he huffs and goes on to clarify. “And I happened to have seen the list of confirmed jousters…”

The prince jumps from his seat, a pot of ink spilling over as he flails to grab his friend’s shoulders, bringing him closer. “Is he going to be there?”

Scott scoffs and nods, “Took you long enough.”

Stiles laughs happily and scoots around the table to hug his friend tightly before he releases him and immediately starts pacing. “Lord Gregor’s is a day’s ride at the most, even shorter if only you and I go. That means in total, three days. My father could expend me for three days, surely. As an act of mercy after all these months of dealing with suitors.”

Scott sighs and leans against the table. “I’m sure you won’t have to use that excuse when you ask the king. But you’ll have to do it quickly because it’s in two days.”

The prince can’t help the giddy smile and shiver of anticipation but he does make himself calm enough to head back to the table and clean up the spilled pot before sitting back down. His friend frowns at this. “I thought you’d be out the door and in search of your father by now.”

Stiles smiles up to Scott mischievously. “If I get all this work he’s given me done, he’ll for sure have no reason to refuse my request.” He hunches over the papers. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Scotty, I have four days of paperwork to get done by morning.”

His best friend chuckles before saluting his rather crazy prince. Yeah, crazy in love.

\------

Stiles smiles brightly as they enter the tournament grounds two days later. The weather was rather dull, a drizzle that had the ground soft and the air filled with a light fog. But this wasn’t going to deter the prince’s attitude. After months, he was going to get to watch Sir Hemming win another tournament. Yes, it was a shame that he couldn’t participate himself, but it was enough to be here today as an audience member.

He and Scott head to the nobility stands where Stiles takes a seat a section away from Lord Gregor and his family, lowering his cloak’s hood while Scott takes a stand behind him. The tournament was just beginning and Stiles could barely contain his impatience at waiting for Sir Hemming’s turn to arrive.

After the first few jousts, Stiles’ eyes leave the ring enough to notice some guards whispering back and forth urgently, which for some reason puts the prince on edge. But this worry quickly is wiped away when he sees a black-clad knight head into the arena. Stiles smiles broadly at the sight of the man but Scott’s hand on his shoulder catches his attention and as he turns to look at his friend, he sees the group of guards approach Sir Hemming and his group. It doesn’t look like a friendly confrontation and in a matter of moments the knight is being arrested and walked out of the arena.

Stiles turns wide eyes to Scott and his friend doesn’t need any hints as he sets out to gather the information that the prince was dying to have. For decorum reasons, Stiles doesn’t rush out of his seat on his own and tries to patiently wait as he watches Hemming’s valets settle the horse and quickly head off in the same direction as the guards.

Sitting through two jousts was nearly impossible and if asked Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell you who won. Finally, he hears Scott sidle up behind him and lean down to his ear, hot breath ghosting and causing a shiver. “He’s been arrested for false identity.” Stiles’ heart stops as his fingers grip the handles of his seat so tightly that they go white. “His name is actually Derek Hale. They’ve put him in the stocks.”

Stiles sits in stunned silence for an undeterminable amount of time. That fact that Hemming, no…that Derek had lied about his identity was not a terrible conflict for the prince. He had done it himself, of course. But he has to wonder why the man would risk his life in doing so for jousting.

The answer hit him just as quickly as the question had floated through his thoughts. It was because he loved it. Stiles’ mind runs a million miles an hour before he finally tugs Scott down to his level. “I need you to ride home. Get Danny to make the papers. Derek Hale isn’t a normal commoner.”

Scott gives him wild eyes of question. “What are you planning to do?”

Stiles' grin is wide, if not a little scary. “What has to be done.” He stands and throws up his hood, shooting his friend a beseeching look. “Please, Scott. Trust me.” The tan boy seems at a loss as he mauls over the decision before nodding and hurrying off to do as the prince bid.

He watches him go before threading his way through the various seats and off the stands. The prince has been here often enough to easily navigate his way through the hamlet to where he knew the stocks and jail were. The crowd is already immense and he lowers his hood even more to conceal his face. If his father knew he was in a mass of bodies with no guards and with anything potentially able to happen, he would bite his head off. And probably ban him from any other tournaments. But that would be fine, as long as he can finish what he plans to do now.

After some shoving and weaving, he makes it to the front of the crowd, off to the side of the fiasco that was happening in front of him. There was a new member of the crew; tall, bulking muscles and dark skin, arms crossed and scowling out at the people as they laugh and jeer, a blacksmith’s hammer in one hand. The tall curly haired boy from the last tournament was holding a stick, seeming ready to attack anyone who came close, and watching as the announcer, still eloquent as ever, tried to appease the commoners into backing off. Sadly, the tons of voices easily overpowered the one. And right in the middle of it all is Derek, head hanging low in the stocks, his body held at a terrible angle as he’s forced into a bent position to fit.

Stiles is struck with an intense anger that he has to try to quell before he steps forward. His movement of breaking apart from the crowd catches the attention of Derek’s friends and he swears he hears a low growl emitting from one if not all of them. Not to be intimidated, he slowly straightens his shoulders and lowers his hood. The self-appointed guards seem to relax minutely and this causes Derek to try to look up as much as he can from where he is stuck, his eyes widening slightly before he lowers his head back down.

Sighing sadly, the prince walks forward to the pillory, taking in the growing silence. He ignores the way Derek’s men step closer, seeming to want to put themselves between himself and the man in the stocks. He comes to a halt in front of the platform and leans up and in on one foot, putting his face right next to Derek’s. The poor man’s face was covered in dirt and grit, some stray tomato juice along his jaw from the food the commoners had been throwing.

Derek glances to him before his brows furrow and he looks away again, his sudden unease with Stiles breaks the prince’s heart. “What a pair we make, huh?” His voice is soft and conspiring, a private exchange of words for just them. “Both of us trying to hide who we are. Both unable to do so.”

The man looks up at him with a blank expression, but the tense hold of his lips shows his defeat and his eyes shine with both inquiry and hurt. Stiles keeps eye contact with him for a moment before he turns his head left and right, meeting the eyes of each of Derek’s friends. “Your men love you,” his eyes pierce back to the green orbs that hadn’t left his, “If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough.” Derek’s eyebrows again bunch up in slight confusion, but Stiles continues before the man gives in to the temptation to voice his questions. “But you also tilt when you should withdraw. And that is knightly too.”

Beautiful eyes widen just a bit and Stiles steps away from the pillory, attention moving to one of the real guards off to the side. “Release him.” The crowd erupts in whispers of confusion as the guard hesitates somewhat before following his orders. Both the herald and the blacksmith help Derek out of the stocks, aiding him in standing upright from the stiff position and bringing him around and off the platform.

Stiles nods to himself before turning to the crowd to announce, “This man may seem to come from humble origins.” The people quiet down, enraptured by the events unfolding before them. “However, my personal historian has discovered that he is indeed descended from an ancient royal line.” This again causes the audience to mutter and scoff, but Stiles continues with a stern and authoritative voice, eyes meeting one person’s after another. “This is my word. And as such, it is beyond contestation.”

He turns back to the pack behind him, zeroing in on Derek as he watches in silent contemplation. “Now, if I may repay the kindness you’ve shown me… Kneel.” Derek seems hesitant, but his herald runs a soothing hand over the back of his neck and he steels himself. The man steps forward and slowly takes a knee before the prince, who nods to the guard, motioning to his sword.

“By the power invested in me by my father, King Stilinski,” he raises the sword and looks around the perimeter of bodies, “and by all the witnesses here today,” he slowly lowers the flat of the sword to the left shoulder of the man before him, “I dub thee, Sir Derek.” He completes the rite by touching the other shoulder and then handing the sword away as the crowd cheers.

Derek still has his head lowered, but his shoulders are moving in slight jerks and Stiles smiles softly before holding his hand up for the crowd to silence itself. “Now,” he reaches down to the knight, “arise, Sir Derek.”

The man looks up at him with bright but clear eyes, which search his own before he grasps Stiles’ hand and lets the prince tug him to his feet. Stiles smiles and doesn’t release his hold. “Can you joust?” Derek frowns at the abrupt question. “If you hurry, you can make the first round before it finishes.”

The herald jumps forward, their bright brown eyes shining with awe and respect towards Stiles before grabbing Derek’s arm. “I can run and explain the situation, delay the joust long enough for you to get prepared.”

The newly appointed knight pauses before nodding firmly and like a shot the herald is off, moving faster than any human Stiles has ever met. Derek nods to the prince before starting to pull away towards his men to go get ready, but Stiles grips his hand tighter and steps closer. “Win. It’ll be the first of many in your own name. Show them how great you are, how you changed your stars.”

Derek stares at him intently before rubbing his thumb along the back of the prince’s hand, giving a nod. “I will.” At that, he releases his hold and hurries off with his men, leaving Stiles smiling warmly, hand clasped to his chest.

\------

When Stiles gets back to his seat in the stands, the herald is indeed entertaining the crowd. They are so good at word-weaving and storytelling that the people don’t even realize how they are being played, and it makes Stiles smirk. Not long after he arrives, he sees Derek ride into the arena in his armor, his blacksmith hammer-wielding friend and the curly-haired squire following close behind. But where Derek and the tall bulky man stop, the thin boy hurries along to the stands, slowly but surely searching for something as he moves along the base.

Stiles is confused but then the boy’s eyes meet his and he changes his path straight for him, causing the prince’s eyes to widen incrementally. He stands when the man gets closer and jumps up to the grasp the railing, tugging himself up in one preternaturally fluid motion. He bows his head slightly before giving a bright if not hesitant smile. “Your highness.”

Not being able to help but smile back, Stiles nods, “Yes…”

The boy’s smile widens. “Isaac. I’m here on behalf of my knight. He has requested permission to ride in your honor.” Stiles stands in shocked silence before he feels a very telling blush creep up his neck and across his cheeks. This makes Isaac chuckle, but he politely hides it behind a closed fist. “And if you should be agreeable, a token of your support would be gratefully accepted.”

Never one known for his gracefulness, the prince flounders, squeaking non-words as his hands travel over his body in search of something to give. His fingers graze the necklace he wore with his family crest and he yanks it off.

Isaac smiles and tucks the pendant and chain safely into his palm. “Thank you, your highness.” The look he spares the prince before dropping back to the arena floor gives Stiles the feeling he was thanking him for more than just the necklace. He smiles softly as he sinks back into his seat and watches as Isaac runs to deliver the token. Derek takes off his helmet and leans down to receive the necklace from his squire, fingers caressing over the crest before he slips it over his neck and tucks it inside his breastplate. He looks toward Stiles and gives a nod, causing the prince’s blush to return full force.

Once his helmet is back on, the herald smoothly ends their speech and thus the flag is waved and the joust begins. Stiles watches, in pure heaven as he witnesses the strength and talent of his knight. Derek easily wins his run, three lances to one. He also wins the following two, putting him into the championship run.

Stiles is on the edge of his seat as Derek takes on a rider that Stiles hasn’t ridden against or seen before. His knight gets a solid hit that raises the other rider up in their seat, but they somehow hold on enough to make it back to their starting position without falling off. A woman with her hood up against the drizzle hands the next lance to the unknown rider and the prince observes as she seems to angrily motion towards Derek, making the rider nod hastily in response.

Shaking off a foreboding worry, his attention turns to the attendant as they wave the flag for the next pass. This time, when the two collide, both lances burst. Immediately, Stiles knows something is wrong as he raises from his seat slowly. Derek is leaning over in his saddle and his body slumps backward as his horse takes him back to his friends. The new angle allows Stiles to see the problem; a large fragment of the broken lance was sticking out of his right shoulder and he sees red. “They tipped it…” That was really the only explanation there could be. The armor Derek wore was extraordinarily made and the likelihood of a blunt lance or its splinters penetrating it, even with excessive force, was minuscule.

The dark-skinned man tugs the fragment out of Derek’s body and holds it up to inspect, no doubt coming to the same conclusion Stiles had. The herald stomps their foot and goes to start across the way but Isaac stops them, seeming to whisper them into thinking clearly. Derek is still hunched over in the saddle and Stiles worries about whether he will be able to finish when the knight motions for the next lance.

The weight of the weapon puts strain on the wound and it slips from his hand before he tries again successfully. Stiles bites his lip as he watches, knowing the pain he was going through in this instant. His eyes wander back over to the other rider, seeing the woman back away and then turn to sneak off. Stiles wants to catch up with her, to hold her responsible for injuring Derek, but the flag is waved and he has to watch to see how his knight finishes the tournament.

Derek seems to struggle to get his aim just right in time for impact, but his hit, still unbelievably strong, unseats his opponent and gives him the win. Stiles cheers just as loud as the commoners on the ground around the arena, garnering some looks from the nobles that he could care less about. The winner rides back to his side of the arena and Stiles notices that two of his friends were missing. But that thought flies to the side as Derek comes forth to accept his award, skin looking pale and sickly as he does. Stiles worries his lip as he starts to make his way off the stands, but the crowd is starting to disperse, making it difficult to make his way through.

Losing sight of Derek and his herald, Stiles is forced to pull up his hood and search through all the tents to try and find one with Derek’s horse tied up outside. It takes some time and a few awkward conversations after misunderstandings before he comes to the right tent, actually seeing Isaac tending to the horse.

He hurries over, Isaac turning towards him and smiling a bit as he bows, but Stiles can see the worry hovering over him. “Is he okay?” He didn’t even care that he was coming off too concerned for the man inside.

Isaac nods. “Yes, your highness. We found the others Argent was working with and-”

“Isaac.” Both Stiles and the other man jump slightly, turning to see the herald coming out of the tent, followed by the bulky blacksmith. Stiles watches as they exchange looks filled with a conversation that the prince couldn’t follow himself.

After they seem to come to an agreement, the tall dark man steps forward, bowing. “My name is Boyd, your highness. And this is Eric.” The herald bows and Stiles smiles softly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” He steps forward to shake Boyd’s hand and then Eric’s. He smiles mischievously as he also bends to kiss the back of herald’s hand, seeing a faint blush spread across their cheeks before they narrow their eyes at him. “I must say, your voice and imagination are exemplary…milady.” The three of them stiffen slightly but Stiles shakes his head. “Your secret is safe with me, not to worry. I’m only jealous that I couldn’t find as good a herald as you. Scott’s my best friend, but his lungs don’t let him yell and run around for very long.” He sobers and looks over their shoulders to the tent entrance. “May I…no, is he…?”

Boyd and the girl step apart, “You can go inside, he’s just resting. And…my name is Erica.”

Stiles smiles and bows his head in acknowledgment and thanks as he passes them to head into the tent. Derek is laying back in a small cot, shirtless with some gauze pressed to his shoulder, which Stiles notes as weirdly black instead of red. But other than that, Derek’s torso is absent of any sort of bruising, which is extraordinary. He allows himself to indulge in the view for a moment, and when he looks back up, Derek’s green eyes are piercing through him. His heart ratchets into overdrive as he clears the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry. I came to make sure you were okay.”

Derek stays silent before motioning him further inside, which Stiles doesn’t need to be asked twice as he makes his way over to the cot. Hesitating for only a moment, he unclasps his cloak and lays it on a nearby stool before sitting gingerly on the cot by Derek’s blanketed thighs. He lets his eyes again roam over the perfect skin, heart picking up in tempo as he notices his pendant still around his neck and resting against his chest.

“They tipped their lance.” The knight nods, wincing from the memory as he flexes his shoulder. “And yet you powered through to take the win, even unseated the rider.” He looks to the table and sees a bowl of water and a rag so he stands to grab it. He wrings the cloth out and grabs a clean piece of gauze before working his way back to Derek’s side, this time sitting closer to him.

“You were amazing out there, and I know I shouldn’t sound surprised because you’re always amazing, but with this injury.” Derek’s hand comes up to catch his wrist before Stiles can grasp the dirty dressing, causing the prince to turn questioning eyes to the man.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to- You don’t have to.” The knight frowns as he fumbles over his words and Stiles shakes his head.

“You’re right, I didn’t have to and I don’t have to.” He pulls his wrist out of Derek’s grip gently before reaching again for the wound. “But I want to, just like I wanted you to be acknowledged for the great man that you are. Shame that a title is needed for that to happen.” His gaze moves to the now uncovered injury and his heart stops. He can feel Derek’s gaze on his face as he leans in, using the damp rag to wipe away the blood and black smears to reveal mostly healed flesh. The prince sits in absolute silence as his left hand comes up to softly trace the skin with his fingertips.

He eventually looks up at Derek, taking in the tenseness around his mouth and apprehension in his eyes. Stiles shakes his head slowly. “I had a feeling you were something special.” He smiles and Derek’s body relaxes minutely, head laying back against the headboard.

The prince hums and runs his finger around the pendant of his necklace, letting his fingertip trace over both the metal and the skin underneath and he swears Derek shudders as his eyes fall shut. It makes Stiles want to lean in and press his lips against the soft pair in front of him, but then he remembers that he can’t, that this man was just a dream for him. He pulls his hand away rather quickly, which draws Derek’s attention. “Anyway, I should be going. I simply came to check on you and congratulate you. And don’t worry about the necklace, you should keep it, as a good luck charm or whatever you would like.”

Stiles goes to stand but a hand again wraps around his wrist, not tightly but enough to cause him to pause. He looks back to Derek as the man sits up straighter. “You have to leave so soon?”

He laughs humorlessly. “Sadly, I have responsibilities back at home to return to.” Slipping his hand into Derek’s, he gives it a squeeze before releasing it.

Derek’s eyes fall away from his own as he nods. “Right, your wife must want you back.”

The way Derek made it sound like a leading question makes Stiles crack a smile before he sighs. “No wife.” He bites his lip before adding with a shrug, “No husband either.”

The knight’s eyes flash up to his own, showing how the statement had startled him. Before Stiles can say anything else he finds himself tugged onto the cot, a large warm hand on the back of his neck and impossibly soft lips pressed against his own in a hard kiss. When he doesn’t respond right away, the kiss softens into a feather-light touch before Derek pulls away completely.

“Sorry. That was inappropriate. But I’ve been, when you said-” His words fall on deaf ears and are cut off by a kiss that Stiles initiates this time. The kiss is longer this time, softer as their lips brush and brush against each other.

When they lean away from one another Stiles can’t help but grin like a court fool before he tilts his head. “I had thought, after that night when Lady Braeden.”

Derek is already shaking his head. “No, that wasn’t what you think. Braeden, I mean, Lady Braeden, her family took Laura and me in after…” He frowns, looking as if a bad memory was playing through his mind, which it probably was when Stiles hears the rest, “After we lost our family. She knew my real identity...and about how bad I am with crowds. Whenever she’s at a tournament, she offers me a token so she can give me an excuse to leave early.”

Stiles is shocked. More so by the number of words the man had just spoken than anything; that was at least four solid sentences there. But then he flushes. “I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” Derek’s hand moves back to the side of his neck, thumb tracing his jaw lightly.

The man’s lips lift in the faintest of smiles. “I assumed as well. But I’m glad my assumptions were wrong.”

The prince smiles back at the man. “Me too. But is it safe to assume now I have a valid reason to stop with all the forced marriage prospects?”

The man rumbles a deep growl that Stiles can now easily tell isn’t entirely human which, huh, the others must be the same as Derek, and his eyes flash a bright blue before fading back to their beautiful green. Stiles would definitely be asking about that later, but for right now… “I would prefer that, yes.”

Stiles leans in to kiss his knight once more before excitedly pulling away. “Just imagine all the tournaments my father will let me have now!” Derek huffs a laugh which makes Stiles smile even brighter. He had fallen in love with the way this man jousted first and foremost but as he watches his eyes crinkle in a smile, he’ll be the first to admit that isn’t the only thing he loves anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's really no excuse as to why it took me two years to finish this story. It's not exactly what I had originally planned out for it, but I'm happy with it. I hope you all enjoyed the read if you made it to the end. Thank you!


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